My Greatest Adventure
by Miss Pookamonga
Summary: "You are my greatest adventure. And I almost missed it." A series of oneshots exploring Bob and Helen's relationship, in no particular order. (NEWEST INSTALLMENT: Pre-relationship Glory Days fic. While on a mission to the Bermuda Triangle, an unexpected turn of events forces Bob and Helen to confront their hidden feelings for each other).
1. Can't Take My Eyes Off You

_Dear Readers,_

 _After noticing that this fandom has a distinct lack of enough Helen/Bob content (an absolute CRIME), I finally decided to remedy this by compiling all my headcanons for them into a series of oneshots. This first idea came from my realization that while Bob has reading glasses in_ Incredibles 2 _, he doesn't have them in the first movie, so naturally I assumed he must've gotten them sometime during the three-month interim between the Omnidroid attack and the Underminer's appearance. This story is just my ridiculous imagining of how that scenario happened. I hope you enjoy!_

 _Best Regards,_  
 _Pooka_

* * *

 **Soundtrack:** "Can't Take My Eyes Off You" by Frankie Valli

* * *

 **Can't Take My Eyes Off You**

* * *

" _Pardon the way that I stare  
There's nothing else to compare  
The sight of you leaves me weak  
There are no words left to speak  
But if you feel like I feel  
Please let me know that it's real  
You're just too good to be true  
Can't take my eyes off you…"_

* * *

"All right, all right, stop! I'll go!"

 _Three weeks_. Three weeks of relentless nagging, day in and day out, with barely any relief. An offhand comment here, a lecture there – if there is one thing to be said about Helen Parr, it's that she is nothing if not persistent.

"Here," the woman in question snips with a scowl, hastily scooping up the phone from the nightstand and shoving the entire apparatus into her husband's unsuspecting arms. "You'd better make an appointment _right now_ before it gets booked up."

Bob Parr resists the temptation to sigh in response. He is well aware that he's pushed his wife's frustration to its furthest limit with his repeated refusals to visit the eye doctor, and anyone with half a brain would know not to provoke her wrath any further.

Even though he really, _really_ doesn't want to go.

They'll probably end up giving him _glasses_. He _hates_ glasses.

Not that glasses are bad, mind you - Bob certainly doesn't think they are. Glasses are all well and good if you truly need them. But he _doesn't_ need them. So what if he has to squint a little while reading the daily news? It's not like he's going blind or anything.

 _It's not just the newspaper, Bob! Remember when we were ordering takeout and you could barely read the menu and you had to keep asking Vi to tell you what the options were? Or when you were reading Jack-Jack a bedtime story and had to hold the book half an inch away from your face?_

 _It wasn't half an inch_ , Bob grumbles inwardly as he reluctantly punches the numbers into the phone's keypad. Lord knows he loves his wife, but honestly she can be a bit much sometimes.

Still, he's learned his lesson from everything that has transpired over the past few months. Now, when Helen Parr insists, Bob Parr obeys.

Most of the time.

* * *

Helen twists her wrist to glance once again at the time. It's been about twenty minutes since Bob disappeared into one of the examination rooms; he's sure to be finished any moment now. She shakes her head, remembering her husband's frequent and adamant protests against needing this appointment in the first place. He could be _so_ pigheaded sometimes. She flips a page of the magazine she's reading, once again silently thanking Lucius and Honey for offering to take the kids for the day, giving her and Bob a much-needed break given the stress of recent events. It's enough trouble dealing with three actual children throwing fits over various non-issues without adding her husband to the mix. Honestly, what was the matter with wearing glasses anyway? And merely reading glasses at that? _It isn't as if you'll be wearing them all the time_ , she told him time and time again. But he wouldn't be Bob Parr if he didn't manage to spend every opportunity he could whining about it anyway.

 _What a big baby_ , she muses, flipping another page. Still, she ends up chuckling quietly in spite of herself.

Helen's thoughts are interrupted by a sudden creaking sound, and she peers upward to see Bob emerging from the doorway, following the doctor – a Dr….Kent, was it? – back into the waiting room. Her husband's handsome face is contorted into something like a childish pout, and she can only assume this means one thing.

"Glasses?"

He merely flashes a wounded look at her, and she has to stifle the urge to burst out laughing.

He may be a pigheaded, stubborn ass, but he's an adorable one nonetheless. Helen almost feels sorry for him.

"We've got a nice selection of frames right here if you want to try them on while I get this paperwork sorted out," Dr. Kent is saying as he leads Bob to the end of a long wall covered in a various assortment of the very things he does _not_ want to be wearing. "You take a look and I'll be right back," the doctor remarks with a cheerful smile before turning back around and vanishing into the office adjacent to the examination room.

"Do you want some help?" Helen asks, her tone tinged with a slight hint of amusement.

"No, no, I'm fine," Bob mutters crankily as he scans the carefully arranged options on the wall before him.

Helen returns her attention to the magazine, figuring she'll give her husband some space to act like a grumpy five-year-old for the time being. He'll get over himself soon enough.

Several minutes of silence pass, broken only by the murmurs of the other occupants in the room, of which there aren't many. It _is_ Saturday morning, after all, and people would much rather be doing far more enjoyable things with their time than spending it at the doctor's office. She and Bob definitely would be, if he hadn't been such a crybaby about the whole situation and postponed the inevitable until the very last second. But that's neither here nor there now. At least he _finally_ gave in. Contrary to popular belief, ruthless hounding did, in fact, have its benefits.

"Hey, honey?"

Helen lifts her eyes once more upon hearing her husband's voice. His back is still turned to her, but he appears to be fiddling with a set of frames and peering skeptically at his reflection in one of the wall-mounted mirrors.

"Yes?"

"What do you think about these?"

At that, Bob spins around to face her, and she nearly chokes on air.

 _Oh._

Helen blinks – _hard_ – once, twice, maybe three times, but for some godforsaken reason she can't seem to clear her head. Or to breathe properly for that matter. Her brain has short-circuited and all she can do is stare dumbly at her husband as time seems to freeze in place, leaving her helpless as she attempts to process the sight before her.

He's wearing _glasses_.

That in itself isn't a surprise. Bob came here to have his eyes examined, and he's obviously _supposed_ to be wearing glasses. But what _is_ a surprise is how unexpectedly… _good_ …he looks wearing them. Not that he doesn't always look good. It's just…well. She can't really explain it. The frames are nothing fancy, just a simple rectangular, black-rimmed set – a fairly common style, really – but by _god_ does he look incredible in them, no pun intended. There's a million adjectives she could dredge up from her mental dictionary to describe his current appearance, but somehow none of them seem adequate. Distinguished, handsome, dashing…dare she say _sexy_ , even? She catches her bottom lip between her teeth without realizing, her stomach jolting with sudden urgency.

"Well?"

Helen blinks yet again and comes to, awkwardly clearing her throat. She desperately hopes Bob can't see the flush in her cheeks – her face is practically on fire. "Huh?" she croaks, breaking out of her trance. "Uhh…give me a minute. Let me just…get a good look."

A _very_ good look. Hell, she could look at him like this all day.

"So do you like them or not?"

A barely audible squeak wrenches its way from her throat before she finally replies. "Ye—" _cough_ "— yes, sweetie. They're very...nice."

Helen beams at her husband in approval, praying in earnest that her exaggeratedly saccharine expression is enough to cover for her flustered reaction. Truth be told, she's practically dying from her vantage point, and she feels like repeatedly slapping herself for behaving like an idiotic schoolgirl with a crush. _They're just glasses_ , Helen mentally hisses with all the vehement condescension she can muster. _You're not thirteen. Get over yourself._

She's fighting a losing battle, though, because the minute Bob removes the frames from his face, her heart plummets in disappointment.

 _For god's sake, Helen Parr, get a_ grip.

Thankfully, it's at this precise moment that Dr. Kent chooses to return to the waiting room, lifting the burden of focus off Helen and shifting it back to more practical matters. She breathes a sigh of relief as Bob hands off the frame to the doctor and scrawls his name hastily on a few more forms. Within a matter of minutes, they're all finished for the day and finally heading out to the car.

The glasses will be ready in a week. Thank _god_ – she needs some time to compose herself after today's embarrassment. What she'll do once her husband actually has them in his possession, however, is another matter entirely. Helen doesn't want to think about that just yet. She's had enough mortification for one day, and judging by the agitation seeping into her limbs at the mere thought of the… _incident_ …she's almost certain she's in desperate need of a drink despite the fact that it's only 10 A.M. For now all she can do is lean back against the car seat and shut her eyes with a tiny exhale, wishing that her stupidly adolescent feelings will just evaporate into the air surrounding her as if they never existed at all.

* * *

"Well, Mr. Parr, it looks like you're a bit farsighted. You'll be needing some reading glasses."

Great. He knew it. He just _knew_ it.

It's just before 10 A.M. on Saturday morning – far too early to be up on the weekend for Bob's liking – and here he is, sitting in an examination chair, having just had the absolute _pleasure_ of wasting the last twenty minutes of his life reading row after senseless row of obnoxious little letters. And now he's being told the one piece of information he's been dreading to hear all week.

Glasses. _Ugh._

He supposes maybe he's overreacting to the news. But if he is to be honest with himself, Bob has never liked the idea of consistently wearing anything on his face aside from his hero mask. Glasses are an inconvenience and an annoyance – they slip off your nose, the lenses are always getting smudged and in constant need of wiping, and the frames really just don't suit his face _at all_. Sunglasses are one thing, but actual glasses? He's going to look like a total idiot. He's grateful that at least he won't have to wear them _all_ the time, assuming they even manage to stay on his face any time he looks down.

After some more prattling on about lenses and prescriptions, Dr. Kent – a strikingly handsome young man with slicked-back dark hair who happens himself to be sporting a pair of black-rimmed spectacles – leads Bob back into the waiting room. He briefly catches his wife's gaze as she looks up from the magazine draped over her crossed legs.

"Glasses?" she inquires, the barest trace of a smirk twitching at the edge of her lips.

Bob says nothing in response and simply shoots her what he hopes is a glare icy enough to freeze over the South Pacific. But the smirk tugs her mouth upward just a smidgen, and he knows he's failed. Hell, he probably looks more like a child who's just dropped his ice cream cone on the pavement. Pathetic.

Helen is never going to let him live this down.

Dr. Kent, meanwhile, is waving his hand at the neatly-arranged frames adorning the surface of the wall. He then says something about paperwork and promptly disappears into his office, leaving Bob to stare forlornly at the vast array of offending items leering down at him. From their little plastic perches they seem almost as if they are silently mocking him, and for a moment Bob is overcome with the sudden urge to punch the wall and send the whole lot of them clattering to the floor in pieces.

But, rather reluctantly, he swallows his pride and carefully begins inspecting each pair.

"Do you want some help?" Helen queries from behind him, and he can hear the contained laughter straining against her words.

"No, no, I'm fine," Bob replies tersely. The last thing he needs right now is to see that same laughter dancing in his wife's eyes as he repeatedly humiliates himself by trying these stupid things on. Groaning inwardly, he zones in on a tortoiseshell pair and gently lifts it off the stand before sliding them onto his face.

As expected, he looks absolutely ridiculous.

On to the next pair.

Bob spends what seems like the next hour agonizing over every pair of glasses, scrutinizing his appearance in the mirror before deciding he still looks like a complete doofus and moving on to the next set. He's at his wit's end when he finally lays eyes on a promising option – a rectangular set of frames with black rims similar to the pair Dr. Kent owns. Hoping that these glasses will finally suit him – or at the very least look decent enough for him to wear without his wife collapsing into a fit of giggles at the sight of him – he takes the frames into his hands and warily settles them onto the bridge of his nose.

Well. These aren't _so_ bad.

They're not _good_ , of course. But they _are_ slightly better than everything else he's tried on so far. He figures he might as well ask for Helen's opinion. Maybe, just maybe, she won't actually laugh at him.

"Hey, honey?"

"Yes?"

Here it is. The moment of truth. He draws in a deep breath. "What do you think about these?"

Bob turns around before he has the chance to chicken out.

What happens next, however, is the furthest from anything he could have ever expected to come of this scenario.

Helen is staring at him. And not in an analytical way. No, instead of sizing up his current appearance like she should be doing, she seems practically frozen in place like a deer in headlights, _gawking_. She blinks her amber eyes deliberately several times before ultimately returning to her stupor, leaving Bob utterly dumbfounded. For a moment he wonders if he should go over and give her a tiny shake to make sure she's all right.

But then _it_ happens.

It's a quick, subtle movement. Anyone else wouldn't have thought much of it. But the minute he sees it, Bob Parr knows _exactly_ what it means, and all of a sudden everything about this dreaded situation is turned completely on its head.

She's _biting her lip_.

There are only three precise circumstances in which Helen Parr bites ever bites her lip, and after fifteen years of marriage, Bob is more than distinctly familiar with each of them. One, she does it when she's excited about something. Two, when she's flustered or embarrassed. And three, for lack of a better way of putting it, when she's… _turned on_.

Judging by the context of the current state of affairs and by the way Helen is apparently unable to tear her gaze away from her husband's face, Bob can conclude only one thing.

It's definitely option number three.

Suddenly, the idea of wearing glasses doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore.

Helen herself doesn't seem to notice her own action, but he decides on the spot that he won't call attention to it just yet. After all these weeks of nagging, he figures he deserves some sort of payback, however small. He'll milk this for all its worth until she eventually cracks under pressure.

"Well?"

He finally breaks the silence, curious to see if this rattles her enough for her discomfort to be visibly noticeable. He's not disappointed. Helen's eyelids flutter nervously and she clears her throat in haste, unmistakably attempting to conceal her reaction from just seconds prior. "Huh? Uhh…give me a minute. Let me just…get a good look."

She tilts her head just slightly, and for a moment Bob relishes the satisfaction of seeing his wife glow with singular _appreciation_ for his new appearance.

"So do you like them or not?" He bites back the impulse to smirk. He of course already knows the answer.

She _squeaks_ , probably thinking he doesn't notice, and then answers. "Y-yes, sweetie," she responds with a small cough. "They're very...nice."

Helen flashes him a broad smile, the kind of smile that takes effort to maintain, the kind of smile Dash sometimes uses to try to feign innocence after spouting an obvious lie. There's no use in her pretending, though. Bob has her right in the palm of his hand, and he _knows_ it.

For once, he's actually won.

* * *

Much to Bob's delight, he receives a call the next Friday – a day early – that his new pair of glasses is ready for pick-up. Instead of teasing and repeatedly bombarding her husband with I-told-you-so's, Helen has been rather quiet about the matter for the past week, thankfully relieving Bob of the need to fake any disgruntlement on his part. He's not all that surprised at his wife's uncharacteristic silence, however, given her _episode_ at the optometrist's office. Normally Bob would immediately leap at the opportunity to poke a little fun at his wife's expense, especially since she's done the same to him on a number of occasions, but acting quite so soon would ruin the plan. Yes, he has a plan. It's a relatively simple plan, but a plan nonetheless, and it demands that he keep his mouth shut for _just_ enough time for Helen to think he's forgotten – or, better yet - never at all noticed her behavior the Saturday prior.

The element of surprise is key.

Bob debuts the glasses to the family after dinner, and they are met with a varied response from the kids, ranging from Dash's bluntly skeptical "I dunno, they look kinda weird, Dad" to Violet's nonchalant shrug of approval. The most notable reaction is from Jack-Jack, who causes quite a stir by forcibly snatching the pair from his father's face and mistaking the item for a chew toy. After several minutes of shrieking intermixed with the older siblings' hysterical howls of laughter, Helen manages to rescue the frames from the baby's jaws and return them to her husband, who inwardly breathes a sigh of relief that his new lenses escaped without a scratch. Not long after that it's time for bed, and once the kids are settled in their room in the motel suite, it's finally time for Bob to put his plan into action.

He's settled comfortably on the living area couch, watching TV as Helen rifles through one of the few boxes of belongings they managed to salvage from their house after the explosion. After a careful glance in her direction, Bob picks up the remote and turns off the television set before leaning back and lounging against the sofa cushions, arms outstretched.

 _Showtime._

"Hey, Helen?" he remarks casually, making the best effort he can to maintain a neutral expression.

"Yeah?" She doesn't look up from her rummaging. "What is it?"

"Is my copy of _Treasure Island_ in there? I kind of want to read it again."

She lets out a sardonic snort before replying. " _Again_? Haven't you already read that—I don't know—at _least_ two hundred times?" Helen turns her head then and fixes her gaze on Bob, quirking an eyebrow in amusement.

"It was two hundred and _one_ times, actually," he answers with a playful wink.

She rolls her eyes in response before returning her attention to the box.

"I'll check," Helen says as she continues to sort through the myriad of items. "Not sure it's in—oh what do you know. Here it is!"

Helen extracts the weathered volume from its place beneath a tangle of old sheets and crosses the room to hand it to Bob, who smiles appreciatively as she approaches. The edges of the pages are slightly singed, but other than loose binding and scuffs on the cover from years and years of enthusiastic re-reads, the copy is miraculously intact.

He reaches out to take the book from her grasp, but not before purposefully drawing the new pair of glasses out from its place in his robe pocket.

"Thanks, sweetie," Bob says innocently, placing the book in his lap momentarily to unfold the frames and place them on his face.

In that split second, he swears he can hear her gulp.

Success.

He lifts his gaze to meet Helen's once more, and it takes all his superhuman strength not to lose control at the sight of her. She looks far more composed than she had at the optometrist's, but her bottom lip is adorably caught between her teeth again, and a rosy blush is coloring her cheeks with the slightest tinge of pink. Not to mention her wide amber eyes look breathtakingly exquisite from this angle, the dim lamplight reflecting gently off her irises and making them glow with a soft golden hue. Her visage is one most tantalizing things Bob has ever laid eyes upon, and for a moment he wants nothing more than to drop the act and yank her into his lap before she can walk away.

But he stands his ground – the game must go on for just a teensy bit longer. Three weeks of nagging is quite a bit of time, and he deserves retribution.

Helen releases her bottom lip, once again seemingly unaware of her action, and smiles weakly at her husband before turning around and resuming her previous activity.

Bob lets a few moments of silence pass between them as he flips through the pages of his book, pretending to read. He can sense Helen inwardly squirming from all the way across the room, and he grins smugly to himself, peeking at her small frame over the rims of his glasses. She's furiously raking her fingers through her auburn hair in frustration as she scans the boxes lined against the wall, but something about her stance tells him that her search for…whatever she's looking for isn't the only source of her distress. She seems distracted. _Very_ distracted.

"What are you looking for, anyway?"

Helen jumps, startled, at the sound of Bob's voice, but refuses to turn around and face him. "I-I'm trying to find that baby blue sweater you got me that one Christmas. I don't know why I just thought of it, but I really like that sweater and I could've sworn it was one of the things that made it out okay…"

"Why don't you give it a rest and look for it tomorrow?" he responds matter-of-factly, still observing her from atop the edge of his lenses.

Helen's fingers clench in her hair as she lets out an exhausted huff. "Well I got started and now I don't want to stop until I find it, y'know…"

"Want me to help you look?"

"NO! I mean…no, it's okay…I'll find it eventually."

His chest swells in satisfaction at her sudden outburst, and then he quietly returns his focus to the book, this time allowing himself to actually read a few pages before deciding it's finally time to push the envelope.

"You know," Bob starts slowly, once again peering at his wife over the edge of the book cover, "you were biting your lip."

She freezes.

"Just now," he clarifies, unable to help the smirk gradually spreading across his lips. "But you were doing it back at the eye doctor's too."

A hush falls over the two momentarily before Helen audibly inhales and mutters a response.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I don't know," Bob continues slyly. "You tell me."

"There's nothing to tell," she replies through gritted teeth. She's rooted to the spot, her hand still clutching a fistful of hair, her back still facing him.

"I see," Bob remarks with a controlled sense of calm. "But if that's so…then why are you avoiding looking at me?"

"What?! I'm not avoiding anything."

"Then why won't you turn around?"

"You want me to turn around? Fine! I'll turn around if you stop being so…ugh!" Helen's hand comes flying out of her hair in exasperation as she finally whips round to face her husband. "Happy?"

He quashes the compulsion to burst out laughing at the way her cute little nose is scrunched up in anger like a petulant child's. "Thing is," Bob continues, restraining the chortle bubbling up from his chest, "I can't see a damn thing in these glasses unless it's right in front of me."

She purses her lips and clenches her hands into fists at her sides with an irritated grunt, but reluctantly stomps over to him anyway. "Can you see me _now_?" she growls, raising her fists to settle them on her hips.

He glances up at her, grinning madly as he picks the book up off his lap and sets it beside him on the couch. "Not quite. You'll have to get a bit closer."

She crosses her arms in defiance. "I think I'm close enough."

"Well I'm telling you that you're not."

"Well _you_ are just going to have to deal with it."

"Oh really?" Bob replies, quirking an eyebrow. Swift as lightning, his large hands shoot forward from his sides and grab her around the waist, dragging her down into his lap as she squeaks in surprise.

"Now that's _much_ better."

And before Helen has the chance to react, he tugs her forward and crashes his lips against hers.

She squirms in his arms for a mere second before retaliating, grabbing the labels of his robe and forcefully pushing his body against the back of the couch with a heated snarl. She then hooks her knees around his hips, unwilling to grant him victory so easily, and lifts her hands to claw at his hair as he hisses into her mouth in response. His own hands begin to roam her body as if they have a mind of their own – across her thighs, up her back, over her neck, into her hair, and back again, all the while drawing her impossibly closer. She moans in spite of herself, falling further into him and almost disappearing into his strong embrace. She can feel the frenzied thrum of his pulse as it mingles with hers, reverberating throughout every fiber of her body until she's practically _trembling_ in his arms. She drags her fingernails down the back of his neck in an attempt to regain the upper hand, but despite the groan she manages to draw from his throat, he maintains control, seizing the opportunity to wrap one arm around her waist, thread the fingers of his free hand through her hair, and twist their entwined bodies around so that she's lying beneath him.

Bob's mouth finally breaks contact with Helen's as her back thumps against the surface of the couch. She gasps for air while his lips trail down her neck – lord knows she desperately needs to breathe – but she's _aching_ to lose herself in his kisses again, oxygen be damned. She arches her neck despite her desire to protest, however, and when he reaches the edge of her collarbone all her resolve nearly evaporates. A soft whine escapes her throat as his nose eagerly nudges the neckline of her pajama top, his mouth claiming every inch of bare skin it can find, marking her as his own. She tightens the grip of her thighs around his hips in response, eliciting another groan from her husband's own throat, before hastily undoing the knot on the belt of his robe and slipping her hands beneath the hem of his shirt. He inhales sharply as she presses her palms against his warm skin and runs them up and down his torso in a steady rhythm, fingers delicately tracing the ridges of his muscles. Eventually his lips make their way back to her face and he once again consumes her in a scorching kiss that burns away the air in her lungs. His soft mouth folds over her lips, swallowing every whimper and every sigh that wrenches free from somewhere deep inside her, and she digs her fingernails into his chest to anchor herself lest she completely drown underneath him.

Neither of them knows how much longer they continue on like this, but at some point Bob pulls away again, resting his forehead against Helen's, his breaths ragged and uneven. Helen extricates one hand from beneath his shirt to lay it on his jaw.

"I hate you," she pants breathlessly, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips.

"Guess we're even, then," he chuckles. She can feel the rumble in his chest quiver against her body and she shivers involuntarily.

"For the record, I'm not sorry for nagging you."

"Oh, I know you aren't. But I couldn't just let you get away with it."

She rolls her eyes. "Of course not."

"You really _like_ them, don't you?" He waggles his eyebrows at her suggestively overtop the rims of the item in question.

"No," she quips, her smirk widening. "They look godawful. Take them off."

"As you wish," Bob replies with a smirk of his own, pulling back slightly and lifting a hand to remove the glasses and place them onto the coffee table. "Better?"

"You know, to be honest, it doesn't make much of a difference. You look terrible regardless."

Bob lets out a playful growl and pounces, smothering his wife's face with kisses and attacking her stomach with a bombardment of tickles.

"S-stop!" she giggles, writhing beneath him.

"Shh," he murmurs teasingly, breath hot against her ear. "You'll wake the kids."

"Shut me up, then."

He ceases his tickling and shifts his body to gaze into her eyes once more before speaking. "Gladly," he whispers, leaning back in so that their noses touch. "But not here."

In one quick, seamless movement, Bob stands up from the couch, scooping Helen's body up into his arms. She keeps her legs hooked around him and wraps her own arms around his shoulders, burying her face into her husband's neck as he strides down the hallway to their room, closing the door behind them with a soft click.

* * *

 **A/N:** _In my defense, I was not intending to write that intense make out session, okay, but I hit a roadblock while I was writing and then that happened, and it ended up being the only way to move the story along. It's not my fault, I swear xD Anyway, special thanks to my friends **Grace** and **Alisha** for letting me bounce around this ridiculous premise and helping me come up with ideas (and a fitting title!) for it. Thank you for reading, and please don't forget to leave a review! _


	2. Stand By Me

_Dear Readers,_

 _Thank you SO SO much for the overwhelmingly positive response to the first oneshot! I'm flattered and truly grateful that so many people enjoyed it. I apologize for taking longer than expected to deliver the second one; for some reason this one gave me hell and and I was constantly re-reading and obsessing over it not being good enough. I pretty much just gave up on it being exactly what I wanted, so I hope it's still enjoyable. My inner angst monster resurfaced (angst is my default setting lmao) so I apologize in advance for the feels attack. But thanks again for the support! I really appreciate it._

 _Best Regards,  
Pooka_

* * *

 **Soundtrack:** "Stand By Me" by Ben E. King

* * *

 **Stand By Me**

* * *

" _When the night has come  
And the land is dark  
And the moon is the only light we'll see  
No I won't be afraid, no I won't be afraid  
Just as long as you stand, stand by me…"_

* * *

An empty space.

It's the first thing Helen sees when her eyes finally adjust to the impenetrable darkness. Instead of her husband's hulking form lying beside her, there is merely a lonely tangle of sheets occupying the spot where Bob _should_ be. This isn't necessarily a surprise; it's not the first time she has awoken to a half-vacant bed in the past several months. But it's become almost a routine, and Helen is, to say the least, reasonably worried. Usually she leaves Bob to his own devices and eventually lapses back into a slumber, waking the next morning to find herself once again wrapped securely in his warm embrace. But tonight she decides she's finally done letting the matter slide for what she realizes was probably too long of a time to begin with, and she is determined to finally get to the bottom of this.

She stretches her arm to turn on one of the bedside lamps before slipping out from under the covers. After quickly donning her robe, she steps out of the room and makes her way down the hall, her bare feet softly padding against the carpet. When she reaches the top of the kitchen stairs, she spies a hefty figure clad in a plaid robe hunched over in front of the refrigerator, presumably rummaging around for food.

Bob.

Helen carefully descends the staircase as the man in question pulls out a carton of milk and shuts the refrigerator door. He neither sees nor hears his wife entering the room, so she breaks the silence, gently announcing her presence so as not to startle him too much.

"Hey."

Bob spins around in surprise. "Oh!" he exclaims. "Hey, honey. I'm sorry – did I wake you?"

"No, no, I woke up on my own. Just…noticed you were up again and came to see if you were okay."

He offers her a drowsy, half-hearted smile before opening the carton and pouring a bit of milk into a steaming mug of coffee settled on the kitchen island. "I'm fine," he replies with a yawn. "Was just a little hungry. You want some?" He gestures to a small plate of shortbread cookies situated next to his mug.

"I'm okay," Helen responds, hugging her arms around her chest. She pauses. What to say next without potentially upsetting him? She sucks in a small breath. "You've…been getting up a lot lately."

This statement doesn't seem to faze Bob much, as he merely shrugs and lifts the mug to his lips to take a sip. "Haven't been able to stay asleep, I guess."

"Any reason why?"

At that, _something_ – Helen isn't sure what – flashes across Bob's face for a split second before immediately dissipating into a neutral expression.

"I don't know," he murmurs evasively, peering down into his mug as if to purposely avoid her gaze. "Weird habit." He reaches towards the plate and grabs a cookie. "You sure you don't want one?"

" _Bob_."

He heaves a sigh, lowering his mug onto the counter. "Look, Helen, it's nothing, really. I'm fine."

She narrows her eyes at him skeptically and crosses her arms. "Are you _sure_?"

"Sure I'm sure. Just a little insomnia. Probably just stress." With that, he lifts both the mug and the plate off the kitchen counter and begins making his way towards the living room.

Astonished at her husband's apparent indifference, Helen drops her arms to her sides and promptly follows at his heels. "Where are you going?"

"If I watch a little TV it helps," he answers without so much as a glance backward. "Helen, honestly, you don't have to stay up. I'm okay, I promise. You should go back to sleep."

Her hands clench into fists in frustration and she swallows her almost instinctive urge to yell. He's hiding something – she's certain of it – and she isn't going to rest until she knows the absolute truth. " _Robert Parr_ ," she hisses threateningly, and _that_ stops him dead in his tracks.

"I am _not_ going back to bed until you tell me what's really going on."

He pauses for a moment, motionless, as an uncomfortable silence settles over both of them. Finally, just when Helen is about to open her mouth to speak once more, another heavy sigh escapes his lips, and his broad shoulders visibly slump in rhythm with his breath. "Helen, it's…" he starts weakly, but he falters, seemingly unable to continue.

A sharp pang of anxiety slices through her chest at the sudden weariness in his tone. "It's…what?"

Shaking his head to himself, Bob merely resumes his journey towards the living room couch, his feet almost dragging across the floor as if an invisible chain is weighing down his every step. Startled at this abrupt change in her husband's demeanor, Helen once again trails after him, her agitation morphing into a knot of fear somewhere in the pit of her stomach.

"Bob?"

"Helen, _please_ ," he moans desperately, placing his mug and plate onto the coffee table and plopping down onto the sofa cushions. "Can't you just…" He runs a hand over his face in exasperation.

"Can't I just _what_?" she retorts, the pitch of her voice rising a few notches. "Leave you alone? Bob, something is up and I –"

"I don't want to worry you, okay!" He cries, arms flailing in midair before flopping down to his sides.

"Well, it's too late, because I'm _already_ worried, Bob!" Helen fires back. "You haven't slept through the night since God knows when and I'm _concerned_ , all right? I want to help but I can't do a damn thing if you keep pretending like there isn't anything wrong!"

"I don't think you _can_ help," Bob grumbles quietly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and bury his eyes into the heels of his palms.

"Let me be the judge of that," Helen replies, the edge in her voice softening slightly. She tentatively approaches her husband and lowers herself onto the couch beside him. "Bob, whatever it is, you can tell me. I thought we agreed to no more secrets."

He sighs yet again, lifting his face from his hands but still refusing to look his wife in the eye. "I know," he mutters.

"Then…tell me? Please?" She lays a delicate hand on Bob's massive shoulder. "I hate seeing you like this. Whatever's bothering you, you shouldn't have to handle it alone."

Another prolonged silence falls over the room, interrupted only by the sound of their breaths filling the space between them. After a long moment, Bob inhales sharply, deciding at last to speak.

"I've…I've been having nightmares."

Helen's eyes widen at the admission. "Nightmares? About—"

"About you. And the kids," Bob finishes, his voice laden with exhaustion and what sounds almost like grief. He leans forward again, this time resting his forearms across his legs and hanging his head dejectedly. "When I wake up, I can't go back to sleep unless I…I get up and do… _something_ to distract myself."

"Oh, sweetie," Helen sighs, scooting closer and rubbing her hand up her husband's neck to weave her fingers into his hair. "How long has this been going on?"

"Since everything with Syndrome."

"That long?!" she gasps, jerking back in shock. "Bob, why didn't you tell—"

" _Because_ , like I said, I didn't want to worry you."

"Bob, this isn't something you should've kept to yourself!"

"I know, I _know_ ," he groans bitterly. "I just didn't think it was worth bothering you with."

"Well it _is_ ," she declares, shifting her free hand to wrap it around one of his and give it a firm squeeze. "I'm your wife. You're _supposed_ to bother me."

"Not like this," Bob mumbles sadly. "I just…" His words disappear into a heavy exhale.

"You just what?"

"Nothing."

" _Bob_ —"

"I just…! I just keep dreaming...I don't know...that something happens. And I can't save any of you. I'm not strong enough. Or I don't get there in time..."

He draws a shuddering breath, and Helen's heart clenches in pain when she spies the tears trickling down his cheeks.

"Oh, honey," she whispers, stretching her arms around his body and enveloping him in a strong embrace.

Bob immediately turns, engulfing his wife's tiny frame in his own arms and heaving her flush against his chest as if he's afraid she might disappear if he doesn't hold her as close as possible. Helen almost gasps in surprise when she feels him trembling violentlyagainst her, and she squeezes harder, tightening her grip around him as if that will somehow prevent him from shattering to pieces in her arms. Still shaking, he buries his head in her neck as she threads her fingers through his hair once more, lightly stroking it in a comforting rhythm.

"I was just so scared I might lose you," he croaks feebly into Helen's shoulder. "All of you. I thought the dreams might go away eventually, and…they were. Going away, I mean. Not happening as often, I guess. But then everything happened with the Screenslaver and when I got that call that you were in trouble it all came rushing back and I was _terrified_..."

"Oh, Bob," she breathes, pulling back just far enough to rest her forehead against his and gaze into his weary blue eyes. She brings her hands forward to cup his cheeks and tenderly brushes the tears away with her thumbs.

"I couldn't lose you again," he rasps, his voice breaking despite his best efforts to control it.

"Sweetie, I'm so sorry," Helen murmurs, sliding her hands back into his hair. She softly brushes a few stray strands away from his forehead and trails her fingers downward, tracing slow, gentle circles into his scalp and running her thumbs over the curves of his ears.

"You don't have to apologize," Bob says quietly. "It's not your fault."

"Well I'm here now. We all are. And we're not going anywhere. You won't lose us."

He exhales roughly, drawing back a bit but still maintaining his steady hold on his wife. "That's the thing, though," he mutters. "How do I know? How do any of us know that? I mean, we're all doing super work now and even though we're together doesn't mean it's _safe_. Especially for the kids."

Helen lets out a tiny breath before responding. "That's always been the risk with this life," she replies. "That something could happen. But we managed."

"Yeah, but that was before we had a family," Bob continues, raw worry bleeding into his tone. "Now...I couldn't live with myself if something happened to the kids. And I know you couldn't either."

"I know," Helen sighs, slipping her palms down the back of Bob's neck and splaying her fingers across his shoulder blades. "I won't lie and say I don't worry about what we do, but…at the same time I know I can't stop them or keep them from what they feel they're meant for."

"Yeah I know. But Jack Jack's too young to make that choice..."

"I agree with you. But, to be fair" – she raises an eyebrow knowingly – "out of all of us he's got the most advantage."

He chuckles weakly, a tiny grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "You have a point there."

Helen responds with a low chuckle of her own, but it quickly dissolves into a troubled frown.

"What is it?"

"Bob..." she starts, her eyes flitting to the side momentarily before meeting his gaze again. "Don't…don't take this the wrong way but...do you...do you think you might want to talk more about this with someone?"

His brow furrows. "You mean…like a shrink?"

"A _therapist_ , yes. Someone like the NSA had in the old days when people got off difficult jobs?"

"Yeah, I remember. But they don't exist anymore?"

She peers downward and softly runs one hand down his chest to absentmindedly toy with the collar of his pajama shirt. "We could call Rick and ask if he still knows anybody willing to take clients."

Bob emits small sigh. "I guess..."

"I mean...it's just a suggestion," Helen continues, glancing back upward. "But to help with the fear maybe. At least so you can sleep through the night."

"Maybe...I'll have to think about it."

"Okay."

Another quiet moment passes between them before either speaks again.

"I'm sorry about all this," Bob finally utters, his voice barely a whisper, as he raises his hand to gently rub the back of his knuckles against Helen's cheek. "I know I should've told you."

"It's all right," she says softly in reply, curling her fingers around his and once again giving his hand a heartening squeeze. "I understand why you didn't. Just…don't ever think you can't tell me things like this. It worries me more if you _don't_ say anything than if you do."

"I know."

He locks eyes with her then, an unspoken current of understanding flowing between them as they gaze silently at each other. And then suddenly he's kissing her, his mouth blanketing hers in a wordless plea for reassurance. She immediately responds as his hand slides into her hair and grips the side of of her head, thumb just below her ear, pulling her into him. His lips are soft, pliant, easing hers open with tender urging, but there is a trace of desperation in his kisses, a latent hunger bubbling up from deep inside him. She surrenders to him with a sigh, letting him do what he wants because she knows he _needs_ this, needs to know that she's here in his arms, safe from whatever perils have been plaguing his dreams. The fingers of one hand ghost his jawline while her other hand crawls up the nape of his neck into his hair once more, massaging away any lingering anxiety. His free arm circles her waist, drawing her to him, their heartbeats entwining and pounding out a steady cadence against each other's bodies.

Bob finally breaks away, albeit reluctantly, and lays his forehead against Helen's as they both pause to catch their breath. Helen continues twirling his hair in her fingers, knowing that the action will soothe him, and he hums in contentment as she leans in again.

"I love you," she whispers against his lips.

He gently captures her mouth with his once more, his tongue granting her a silent reply before he pulls away and speaks the words.

"I love you too."

Helen slips her arms around his broad frame yet again and rests her chin on his shoulder as he reciprocates, letting him hold her against him a little while longer. The trembling has subsided, and she can feel his chest rising and falling in an even pattern.

"You should get back to bed," he murmurs finally, his lips brushing the side of her ear.

"Not until you do," she replies softly.

"I'm..." He hesitates. "I'm not quite ready yet."

She pulls back to look him in the eye once more. "Then I'll stay until you are."

"You sure?"

She nods quietly, lifting a hand to lovingly stroke his cheek. He pauses a moment, drinking in the sight of her, then leans backward onto the surface of the couch, pulling her with him. She nestles comfortably into him, legs curled against his legs, head resting atop his chest. He shifts slightly and reaches for the TV remote, wrapping his other arm around her and securing her tightly to his body.

Helen closes her eyes just as the light of the television flares into view, and nuzzles her nose into the patch of skin above Bob's collar. The last thing she remembers is the gentle press of his lips against her forehead, before the solid beat of his pulse eventually lulls her back to sleep.

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ _Thanks again to **Grace** and **Alisha** for trying to help suggest songs that were suitable for the title, even though I ended up picking something else entirely lol xD_


	3. Safe and Sound

_Dear Readers,_

 _I apologize for taking SO long with posting this next installment! Real life got in the way and it was very difficult at times for me to find the motivation to continue writing this one, so that's why it took awhile. It's admittedly pretty similar to the last oneshot (except with the roles reversed), but I hope you all still enjoy it. Thanks again for your support!_

 _Best regards,_  
 _Pooka_

* * *

 **Soundtrack:** "Safe and Sound" by Taylor Swift (ft. The Civil Wars)

* * *

 **Safe and Sound**

* * *

" _I remember tears streaming down your face when I said I'll never let you go  
When all those shadows almost killed your light  
I remember you said don't leave me here alone  
But all that's dead and gone and passed tonight_

 _Just close your eyes, the sun is going down  
You'll be alright, no one can hurt you now  
Come morning light, you and I'll be safe and sound…"_

* * *

He wakes to a frenzy of thrashing and a strangled cry puncturing the silence.

"Helen?"

A flustered Bob Parr blearily rubs the sleep from his eyes as a rustling of movement and barely-stifled noise beside him unexpectedly rouse him from his slumber. When the sight before him finally blurs into focus, his chest clenches in horror and he nearly chokes on what little air remains trapped in his lungs. Sometime over the course of the night, his wife has somehow escaped the firm grip of his embrace and is now tangled in a web of sheets, flailing erratically against the mattress as if she is attempting to free herself from the mass of fabric hopelessly twisted around her limbs. Her floundering grows increasingly frenetic as the seconds pass, causing the sheets to coil even more tightly around her lithe frame and gradually trap her in a suffocating cocoon. An agonized sound somewhere between a moan and a screech of pain wrenches free from her throat as her head tosses towards him, a thick sheen of sweat visible on her skin even under the cover of darkness.

 _"Helen?!"_ he repeats, his mind and body snapping to awareness as his massive hands instinctively fly forward to grab her by the shoulders.

Helen fails to respond; instead, the thrashing becomes more frantic as her legs begin kicking feverishly at their cloth restraints to no avail.

" _No…!_ "

"Helen! Helen, _wake up_!" Bob exclaims desperately, a sudden surge of anxiety flooding his veins with icy adrenaline. He jostles her torso with what he hopes is enough force to release her from the clutches of whatever nightmare has seized a hold of her. She retaliates, trying in vain to wriggle free and struggling against her husband's grip with a surprising amount of strength for someone still unconscious.

" _NO_!"

"Helen, _please_ , it's okay! You're just dreaming!"

At that, a powerful shudder ripples throughout her entire body, and with a loud, sharp gasp, her eyelids at last shoot open. For a moment she does nothing but gape blankly upward, her face frozen in a mask of abject terror and her chest heaving with labored breaths. Then, her eyes begin wildly scanning her surroundings, her head jerking back and forth in a startled attempt to get her bearings.

"Helen! Helen, it's okay. It's okay," Bob whispers urgently, gently pushing her back onto the surface of the bed when she makes an impulsive move to bolt upright. "You're awake. It's all right. You're safe now."

She pauses and meets his gaze, at first not truly _seeing_ him. After a few seconds of petrified confusion, she blinks a few times, and her face finally relaxes as recognition slowly seeps into her consciousness.

"Bob?" she croaks with a furrowed brow, her amber eyes searching his face earnestly as if she's still not entirely sure of where she is or if he's really there.

"Yes, it's me. Are you okay?"

Helen stares at him for yet another prolonged moment, her expression unreadable. Then, without warning, she abruptly bursts into tears.

"Helen?!"

Bob doesn't get a chance to say anything more before the woman in question clenches her fists in the fabric of his pajama shirt and roughly yanks herself into his chest, her entire body convulsing with sobs. Dumbfounded – and, quite honestly, terrified out of his mind – Bob immediately wraps his arms around her tiny figure and cradles her tightly against him, murmuring softly into her ear and stroking her hair in a soothing rhythm.

" _Shh_ , baby. It's okay. I'm here."

He thinks maybe he hears his name jumbled amidst Helen's muted wails and muffled shrieking, but for the moment it doesn't matter, because his beloved wife is quaking so violently it's taking almost all of his incredible strength to hold her steady. What on earth was she dreaming about? Even with all they've experienced throughout the years, Helen has never been prone to vivid nightmares – that was always primarily _his_ affliction, and even then, none of his dreams has ever induced a response quite as intense as the one he just witnessed. As if that wasn't enough of a cause for concern, Bob knows full-well that Helen, for all her warmth and compassion, still has a heart of steel, and nothing is powerful enough to penetrate that shield of emotional invulnerability unless it is something frighteningly severe in nature. Whatever wretched visions were tormenting her mind, they must have been absolutely horrifying. Bob's stomach churns at the thought, and for a brief moment he wishes desperately – and not for the first time – that he could possess his wife's elastic capabilities if only to stretch his arms around her ten times over to secure her to him and wrap her in an unbreakable sheath of safety.

The relentless sobbing continues on for several more minutes, with Helen refusing to release her death grip on Bob's shirt and Bob rubbing his large palms gently across her back and threading his fingers through her hair in an attempt to placate her. All the while, he whispers a stream of reassurances into her ear, punctuating them with small but tender kisses against the top of her head and the side of her face. Finally, the ferocious shaking and pained cries gradually die down until Helen's body stills, and the only noises left emerging from her throat are a series of soft whimpers.

Bob rolls over slightly to switch on one of the bedside lamps before returning his attention to his now sniffling wife. Firmly, but not too much so, he grips her head in his hands and carefully pulls it away from his tear-soaked chest.

"Hey," he whispers, caressing Helen's cheekbones with his thumbs. "Are you all right?"

She sucks in a shuddering breath before answering. "I-I don't know," she rasps.

Bob's brow creases in concern and he surveys her face for a few moments in the lamplight. Her skin is a pallid, sickly hue, and her eyes are bloodshot, teardrops still hanging heavily on her lashes. Her auburn bangs are darkened with moisture, plastered to her forehead with sweat that beads on her temples, while the rest of her hair sticks up at every angle, a hopeless nest of kinks and knots. Simply put, she looks awful, and Bob's heart plummets at the sight of her. He _hates_ seeing Helen – his strong, fearless, indomitable, _beautiful_ Helen – in a state of utter disrepair like this.

Finally, Bob speaks again, gently pushing her dampened bangs away from her forehead. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Helen's gaze flickers to the hands still clutching the lapels of Bob's shirt, and for the first time since her outburst, she uncurls her fingers and extends them against the surface of his chest.

"I'm not sure," she replies in a tiny, fragile voice.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," Bob murmurs, combing her matted hair with his own fingers. "Here, can I get you something? Glass of water?"

He shifts, making to rise from the bed, but Helen gasps suddenly and impulsively claws at his collar again. " _No_!" she cries, roughly dragging him back to her. "No…just…stay here with me. Please." Her lip begins to quiver, and Bob draws her close before a fresh wave of tears overtakes her.

"Okay, okay, _shh_ ," he murmurs, enfolding her in his embrace once more. "I won't leave."

"Thank you," she whispers, her breath warm against his collarbone as her arms snake around his hulking torso. She burrows into him and rests her ear to his chest so she can listen to the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

Bob resumes his comforting ministrations, trailing his fingers up and down the length of Helen's spine with one hand and once again stroking her hair with the other, carefully massaging the tension out of her body. They remain like that for a long while, completely enveloped in each other, their breaths eventually syncing into one even cadence.

After some time, Bob, believing Helen's stillness to be a sign that she's once again fallen asleep, moves to turn the lamp off. But before he can, he is interrupted by a barely audible mumble from the suddenly still-conscious body in his arms.

"It was you."

Bob pulls back in surprise. Helen, despite having decided to speak up, hasn't budged and is avoiding his gaze, her eyes fixed intently on her husband's shirt collar.

"What?"

"My dream," she mutters a tiny bit more loudly, still refusing to look him in the eye. "It was about you."

Bob takes a second to process this information before responding. "Me…? What…what happened?"

He can feel Helen's hands clenching nervously in the material of his shirt, her fingernails lightly digging into his back. She says nothing for several moments, choosing instead to focus her attention on his pajama buttons.

"If…if you don't want to say—" he starts, but she finally begins talking again and cuts him off.

"It was when we were fighting. On the boat."

The memory instantly comes rushing back, images flashing through Bob's mind like an old film reel. The darkened room. Helen, shrouded in shadow, her expression cold and unfeeling as she stared at him emptily through the icy blue glare of those godforsaken goggles. Her sudden calculated attacks. His confusion at what was happening and his terror that he might lose her to whatever force had taken her captive. Her body coiling around his like a boa constrictor going in for the kill, the feigned look of surprise on her face when he thought she recognized him. Her shocked gasp right before she kissed him - deeply, hungrily, like she did on those nights when she was craving his touch, fooling him into thinking she was still herself, _his_ Helen, before the truth became clear all too late and everything went black –

"It didn't end the same."

Bob is dragged out of his less-than-pleasant reverie by the sound of Helen's broken voice cutting through the silence. "What do you mean?"

Helen sniffles again, her gaze still fixated on her husband's chest rather than on his eyes. "The fight. It didn't end like…how it was on the recording."

Bob is silent for a moment, recalling when the police called them and the other supers in to give statements regarding the Screenslaver incident. The authorities asked a series of routine questions about what each super remembered (which obviously was very little), before presenting the footage captured on the suitcams in the hope of prying free any possible loose memories that could help cement their case against Evelyn Deavor. He and Helen sat together in one of the interrogation rooms, watching scene after horrifying scene play out on the tiny television screen, the videos displaying the chilling truth with frightening clarity. Bob distinctly remembers the incalculable rage that swelled up inside him upon witnessing Helen's harrowing battle with the man in the mask. Each time the recording of Helen cried out in agony, it sent a jolt of fury thundering through his bones, and he had to grip the sides of his chair tightly enough to irreparably warp the metal armrests in order to keep himself from hurling the object at the screen and barreling through the walls of the prison to personally wring the neck of the woman ultimately responsible for his wife's pain. Helen was uncharacteristically stoic during the entire experience, staring rigidly ahead, her face betraying little to no emotion even when one of the officers finally switched off the television and continued prodding with additional queries. The ride home was blanketed in a painfully awkward silence, and although there was, and still is, an unspoken understanding that the door was open between the two of them for discussion, they never really talked about what either of them saw that day. Bob sensed at times that the veneer of indifference on Helen's part was simply that – a smokescreen expertly concealing a tempest of raw emotion she didn't want to burden the family with – but he hadn't wanted to push Helen to open up if it would be too overwhelming for her. He figured that given enough time, she would eventually approach him when ready.

But he never expected anything quite like this.

"How did it end?" Bob inquires in a quiet, cautious whisper. He is keenly aware of the fact that Helen's emotional state is currently balanced on a precariously thin knife edge, liable to crack at any time if he nudges her even the slightest bit too hard.

At that, her ashen face contorts into a twisted parody of her normal features – almost as if she's experiencing a surge of excruciating pain – and her fists ball up the material of his shirt so forcefully he gasps in surprise at the sudden movement.

"Helen?"

She squeezes her eyes shut and shivers as a fresh stream of tears begins trickling down her cheeks. "In the…in the dream I'm…I'm conscious," she stutters, pausing to draw in a shaky breath before continuing. "I mean, conscious like…the goggles are controlling me but I'm not hypnotized. My body is moving and my mind is screaming at it to _stop_ but it won't listen and _it won't stop_ and I just keep hurting you and hurting you and I can't stop, I can't stop _, I can't STOP_ …!" A tortured shriek swallows the rest of her words and she collapses into sobs again, her hands abruptly releasing their hold on Bob's shirt and flying back to press their palms against her mouth.

"Helen! Oh, honey, stop, please, it was just a dream!" Bob pleads, engulfing his wife's tiny wrists in his large hands and gently tugging them down. "It's okay. It wasn't _real_."

"But it could've been!" she snaps, wresting away from him. "It didn't end the same! I-I was wrapping around you like I did in the real fight and I could _hear_ you choking, Bob! I _heard_ you and I could _feel_ your chest moving and you were struggling to breathe and I kept begging and _begging_ myself to _please_ stop but I just kept squeezing tighter and tighter and…and…"

"And…?"

"And then you just _stopped_!"

"Stopped…what?"

" _Breathing_!" Helen cries, clutching at her chin with her trembling fingers. "You stopped _breathing_ and then I don't remember exactly how I got there but I was kneeling over top of you and you…you weren't moving…and I just kept screaming and _screaming_ at you to wake up but you wouldn't and – oh _god_!" She buries her face in her hands and lets out an agonized wail, her body curling into itself as she continues weeping loudly.

Without missing a beat, Bob practically throws his arms around his distraught wife, fiercely hauling her against him, all caution forgotten. "It wasn't your fault," he declares firmly, cupping the back of her head with one hand and tightly locking his opposite arm around her waist. "It was just a dream, okay?"

"I could've _killed_ you!"

"But you _didn't_ , and I'm here now, and everything is okay, okay?"

"I could've…I could've…" Her protests dissolve into unintelligible cries, their volume muffled by her proximity to Bob's chest.

"You _didn't_. And even if you _had_ , it wouldn't have been your fault."

" _I thought I lost you!_ "

Maybe it's the words themselves, or perhaps it's the sheer desperation in the way Helen says them, but upon her utterance a sharp pang slices through Bob's heart, rendering him speechless. He can feel his insides contracting and coiling into a knot of unnamed emotion as one more memory flickers into his mind's eye. His hands clasping his wife's small shoulders in their massive grip, shaking her entire body with just enough force to momentarily lift her up off the ground as a frantic bellow thundered forth from his throat –

 _I can't lose you again!_

The emotion twists and curls even more tightly inside him as it finally morphs into a recognizable form, and when the memory fades from view, Bob is left feeling only one thing – _anger_. Pure, unadulterated ire boiling in his gut at the woman whose name he can't even bring himself to say let alone _think_ , the woman behind their last ordeal who has reduced his precious Helen to a quavering mess of nightmares and tears and screams. The woman who, through her own selfish machinations, has pushed his wife to the edge of the same terrifying abyss he was forced to confront mere months earlier. The prospect of losing Helen and their children was an unspeakable horror that completely consumed every fiber of his being, and simply remembering his fears at the time is enough to send Bob's mind hurtling into chaos. It was excruciating to come face to face with the enormity of such a possibility, and Bob could barely stomach the idea someone else enduring such pain, let alone his own wife. It was one thing for _him_ to have experienced it – he himself paved the way to that grisly revelation through his own faulty actions. But Helen? Helen was a victim of a cruel scheme, a puppet in the hands of a criminal mastermind, a pawn driven to actions she never consented to, who is now being faced with horrific visions she never asked for nor has any right to be subjected to. How _dare_ anyone put her in this kind of position when she did nothing to warrant it. Bob is _seething_ , and suddenly all he sees is the red-hot flare of fury blazing in his vision, a raging conflagration threatening to devour anything in its path. He wants to hurt _her_ the way she's hurt Helen. Break her the way Helen has been broken. Crush her in his grip the way Helen has been crushed under the weight of her trauma. Drain her of every last ounce of stability until she's nothing but a hollow shell, crumbling into nothingness the way she deserves to –

"Bob!"

Yet again, he is wrenched free of his thoughts by the sound of his wife's voice.

"What?"

"Bob, you're squishing me."

He blinks, coming to, and with one glance downward he sees that his hold on Helen has tightened so considerably that she has ceased crying and has flattened herself against his body to compensate for the force of his grasp.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he splutters in embarrassment, loosening his arms and allowing his wife to regain her normal shape.

Helen peers upward into his eyes, and his heart clenches once more at her appearance. Her face is pink and swollen from the deluge of tears, and she suddenly looks so… _small_ in their enormous bed _,_ herdelicatefigure hopelessly adrift amidst the sea of pillows and tangled sheets.

"Are you okay?" she croaks, her voice hoarse from her inexorable weeping.

" _Me?_ I should be asking _you_ that."

"You were squeezing me really hard."

"I…" Bob falters. What can he say? That he was momentarily blinded by a rush of murderous wrath – and not for the first time with regards to her well-being? "I'm…worried about you," he finally manages.

Helen sniffles and averts her gaze again, moving her hands to absentmindedly smooth Bob's collar against his shirt. She's silent for a long moment before speaking again.

"I'm worried too," she murmurs in a whisper so tiny it's barely audible. "I'm…I'm scared, Bob."

"Oh, sweetie," Bob sighs, releasing his anger for the present moment. He slips one hand beneath Helen's chin and tilts her face upward so she's looking into his eyes again. "I'm here. Nothing happened and nothing is _going_ to happen, all right?"

"That's not it," she replies, her eyes pooling with tears again. "I'm scared to go back to sleep."

His heart swoops low into his gut at the admission. _He's_ the one who's supposed to fall victim to his dreams, _not_ her. "I'm not going anywhere," he reassures her, sweeping his hand over the side of her face and weaving his fingers back into her hair. "If you have another nightmare I'll be right here, I promise."

"I can't…I don't…I don't know what I'd do if I lost you," she whispers, her voice beginning to waver once again. "Let alone if _I_ was the one responsible –"

"Helen," Bob interrupts, his voice tinged with the slightest hint of a growl, "stop. You didn't _choose_ any of this. And besides, Ev – _she_ – didn't want me dead anyway."

"I guess…"

"Don't beat yourself up over this," he pleads gently, rubbing his thumb in circles against her cheek. "You didn't mean to do anything you did and you _know_ that."

"I know, it's just…I'm afraid of what _could_ have happened."

"Trust me, I know the feeling. But if you keep focusing on that then it just becomes a cycle and you never stop thinking about it. I know sometimes…sometimes I do that, and _god_ , it's so hard to stop but you just have to grit your teeth and accept what _did_ happen and move on."

Helen falls silent for a few moments, her brow wrinkling as her glassy eyes roam over Bob's entreating features. Then, in an unexpected gesture, her lips curve into a slight smile, catching her husband off-guard.

"Now you sound like me."

Bob blinks in shock for a few seconds before a throaty chuckle bubbles up from his chest, momentarily diffusing the tension in the air. "Well, it's been fifteen years," he muses, the corners of his own lips twitching upward. "It's about time you rubbed off on me."

Helen's smile widens for a fraction of a second before faltering, her face sinking back into a troubled frown. "I don't know what I'd do without you," she says softly, her voice cracking as it collides with the lump in her throat.

Bob leans forward and captures her mouth in a brief but poignant kiss before responding. "You won't have to worry about that for a long time, sweetheart," he murmurs, locking eyes with her. "I told you. I'm not going anywhere."

Helen's gaze wanders over Bob's face again – whether she's contemplating what words to say next or searching for something in his eyes, he is unsure of. But his silent questioning is cut short by the sudden force of her lips pressing against his and her hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt. He grunts as she moves against his mouth with surprising fervor, but it only takes him a second to sense the fragility behind her actions, the desperate _need_ born from her raw fear. Once he realizes her motive, he immediately responds by gripping the back of her head and pulling her further into him, letting her take the reins because he knows this is what she needs right now – to feel his solid presence with her, beside her, as a _part_ of her. A part of her fixed firmly in place with no threat of being lost to the ravages of her imagination. Her fingers flex against his chest and slide up his shoulders and neck to eventually claw at his hair, the kisses growing more demanding, imploring him for reassurance. She presses her body flush against his, molding it to his features and pushing, _hard_ , until he rolls onto his back and succumbs, cinching his other arm around her waist and splaying his fingers across the side of her ribcage. She pulls her hands forward, mapping the contours of his face with her own fingers, tracing every ridge and plateau as if attempting to memorize him. His hand clenches against her scalp and she drags his bottom lip through her teeth, gasping his name as she continues to sink deeper into him. And despite the lack of air gnawing at his lungs, he continues to let her do what she wants, knowing that even if she steals his breath away – quite literally – the comfort he can provide by being there for her in her time of need is more than worth it. _Everything_ is worth it for her, no matter how big or small the gesture.

Helen pulls away finally after what seems like hours, panting heavily but sated, her lips hovering inches above Bob's as she lays her forehead atop his. They both lie there for a moment, reveling in the feeling of their bodies pressed together, their heartbeats entwining and pounding through their bones as if they are one – a palpable reminder that they're both here, both well, both _alive_. It's several moments of them simply holding one another, breathing in tandem, before either of them speaks again.

"I love you," Helen gasps quietly. She kisses him again, lips gliding softly against his this time. " _So_ much."

Bob tilts her head in his hand and trails kisses up from her chin to finally settle his mouth on her temple. "I love you too."

Helen turns to place a kiss on his chin before tucking her head into the crook of his neck and snuggling into his body, curling her fingers in his shirt collar yet again. Bob reaches to switch off the bedside lamp before he tugs at the sheets and draws them up over both him and Helen, encasing them in a warm nest of safety for the time being. Helen burrows beneath the covers and settles in as Bob presses a final kiss to the top of her head and allows his eyes to slip closed. He prays fervently that the night's terrors have run their course and that his wife can sleep through till morning undisturbed. But should she wake again, he'll be right here with her, as he's always vowed to be. So, with that thought in mind, he at last lets himself drift into unconsciousness, the thing he loves the most held close at his side.


	4. Wish That You Were Here

_Dear Readers,  
_  
 _Thanks again for your continued support and patience; I really, REALLY appreciate it, and it's partly what's helped me keep writing consistently for the first time in over a year! I have to apologize though - instead of delivering a fluff fic like I was originally intending to, I ended up writing this absolute angst-fest about Helen recovering from the Screenslaver fight. Unfortunately my brain's default setting is angst so I kind of couldn't help myself. I hope you all still manage to enjoy, it, though!_

 _Best Regards,_  
 _Pooka_

 ** _P.S.: Just to be safe, I'm giving a mild content warning for a couple brief allusions to slight dissociation/out-of-body experiences due to shock/trauma. It's nothing overly descriptive but I wanted to give a heads-up in case anyone might be bothered by it. _**

* * *

**Soundtrack:** "Wish That You Were Here" by Florence + The Machine

* * *

 **Wish That You Were Here**

* * *

" _And I never minded being on my own  
Then something broke in me and I wanted to go home  
To be where you are  
But even closer to you, you seem so very far  
And now I'm reaching out with every note I sing  
And I hope it gets to you on some Pacific wind  
Wraps itself around you and whispers in your ear  
Tells you that I miss you and I wish that you were here…"_

* * *

It's past midnight by the time the painkillers wear off.

Unfortunately for Helen Parr, she has yet to succumb to sleep. So when the pain once again rears its monstrous head, she is fully conscious, unable to escape the surge of white-hot fire setting her nerves ablaze. She clamps her jaw _hard_ and squeezes her eyes shut in an attempt to quash the sickening sensation of bile rising in her throat, but it's no use. Cursing under her breath, she hastily throws the covers off her and rolls out of bed, desperately hoping that she can make it to the bathroom before she empties the contents of her last meal onto the hotel carpet.

Helen barely contains the shriek of agony that claws at her insides as she gingerly places her feet on the floor and slowly pushes herself up into a standing position. The movement sends a stab of excruciating pain shooting up her thigh and into her hip, and the room begins to swim in her vision, her surroundings momentarily blurring into a formless haze of color and light. She sways dangerously to the side and flings her arm out on instinct, scrabbling at the nightstand in a frantic attempt to regain her balance. She manages to plant her hand firmly atop its surface before she has the chance to stumble back onto the mattress, and she shuts her eyes once more, sucking in several deep yet quavering breaths in a strained effort to steady herself. When she opens her eyes a few seconds later, the room has righted itself in her view, and she takes a cautious step forward, her hand still clutching the side of the nightstand in case she should wobble again. The first step goes without a hitch, but the moment she tries to bring her opposite foot up underneath her, she realizes to her horror that her other leg has gone limp once again, rendering it practically useless. She bites back another scream as the pain sears through her muscles, and forces herself to keep moving one step at a time, dragging her injured leg behind her.

Without the flood of adrenaline pumping through her veins like earlier, Helen is unable to pick up much speed, so the progress of merely walking is agonizingly slow. It's only a few feet to the bathroom door, but in her current state it feels like _miles_ , and by the time Helen reaches it she wants nothing more than to collapse onto the floor in a heap and remain there for the rest of the night. But she grits her teeth, pressing on despite the maelstrom of aches and nausea and exhaustion, and pushes the door open. She fumbles around in the dark for the light switch and then hobbles to the edge of the toilet where she finally drops to her knees. She hardly has enough time to thrust the seat up before her stomach lurches, and she spends the next several minutes clutching the side of the bowl and retching until she has nothing left inside her. When she's finally finished, trembling violently and gasping for air, she shakily lifts a hand to flush the toilet before allowing herself to list sideways and fall against the sink cabinet with a dull _thud_. A second later, however, she jerks backward with a startled cry as another bolt of razor-sharp pain slices through her shoulder and up her neck.

Helen gulps, and the helpless whimper rising up from her chest dies in her throat for the time being. After what seems like hours, she manages to haul her body upright again and lean against the bathroom counter, her lungs heaving with the effort. Her eyes instinctively flicker upward to the mirror, and she nearly topples backward from the sheer force of her own shock at the grotesque sight before her. Wide brown eyes sunken into deep, shadowy caverns gape emptily back at her, surrounded by a ghostly pale landscape drenched in a sheen of cold sweat and framed by an unruly nest of auburn frizz. This face isn't her own – it _can't_ be – it's too terrifyingly unfamiliar, too unrecognizable, and hardly even _human_. Helen suddenly feels her mind detaching from her body, floating aimlessly away into an unknown dimension somewhere between reality and a horrifying nightmare she can scarcely distinguish from one another. She grimaces in response to the unsettling sensation, and the stranger reflected in the glass mirrors her expression almost as if it's mocking her. She tears her gaze away as a shudder ripples through her body, and then she spies the neat little stack of Dixie cups hugging the corner of the wall. Taking care not to glance back at the godforsaken mirror, she plucks a cup from the top of the stack and fills it with cold water before staggering back towards the bed, not bothering to turn off the bathroom light on her way out.

When she finally plops back down onto the mattress, she places the cup on the nightstand and reaches for the little orange bottle next to the alarm clock. The doctor who examined her after her altercation with the Screenslaver assured her that due to the protection of her suit and her unique physiology, the effects of the injuries she sustained probably wouldn't last as long as they would for a non-super. _Like hell they won't_ , she muses bitterly as she twists the bottle cap open. Still, he at least did see fit to grant her a generous dose of medication before declaring her free to go, sending her off with the bottle and a pointed instruction to "get some rest."

 _As if that will do me any good_ , Helen inwardly grumbles. She's only supposed to take one pill every few hours, but the pain is so unbearable that she shakes two capsules onto the upturned bottle cap. Against her better judgment, she pops both of them into her mouth, gulping them down with the cup of water before yielding to her exhaustion and leaning into the soft embrace of the pillows beneath her.

It's then that something catches her eye. Swiveling her head to the side, her gaze hones in on the phone sitting atop the nightstand, and her heart clenches in her chest as a sudden realization dawns on her.

 _Bob._

In the midst of the night's chaos, she completely forgot to call him. She feels a sharp pang of emotion pierce through her at the thought of him trying to reach her, only to be met with indefinite ringing on her end. _He must have been worried sick_ , Helen thinks, guilt settling in her gut like deadweight. Without thinking, she reaches out and grabs the phone, carefully adjusting her position so she can hold the receiver with one hand and dial the number with the other. It's only when she glimpses the bedside clock that she pauses, her fingers freezing just inches away from the rotary. The red digits glare accusingly at her – _1:15 AM_. Far too late to call. There are rare occasions when the two of them will still be up at an ungodly hour, but with his hands full with the kids – not to mention being all on his own – the likelihood of Bob being awake now is next to impossible. Helen sighs heavily, slumping into the mattress and letting the phone receiver slip down beneath her ear, the dial tone blaring against her jaw. She might as well attempt to obey the doctor's orders and get a few hours of sleep in before the inevitable press conference tomorrow. She can call him in the morning. He'll be fine. They'll both be fine. It's just _one_ night without speaking to one another – nothing that they haven't dealt with before, although the last time they were apart the circumstances were quite different…

Her arm refuses to budge.

Something twists deep in the pit of her stomach – something raw and untamed, a ravenous hunger gnawing at her insides, desperate with need. Helen suddenly becomes hyper-aware of how massive the bed is, how _empty –_ her petite figure barely fills even a third of the space, the rest of it a yawning expanse of blankets and cushions that only serves to taunt her in her isolation. A chill ripples through her veins, and she finds herself _yearning_ for the warmth of an embrace – _Bob's_ embrace. Her husband. Her chest contracts as the image of his gentle face blossoms in her mind's eye, and before she can stop it, a lump begins rising in her throat, pools of hot tears blurring her vision.

 _God_ , she misses him.

A sudden wave of emotion crashes over her, flooding her consciousness and carrying her thoughts back to the events of that night. The flashing lights, the man in the mask, the cattle prod plunging into her side and the blistering pain that accompanied it, her head pounding in agony as if it was about to split into two. But the most terrifying things she recalls are the jumble of thoughts that raced through her mind in those moments – each one merely a fraction of a second but powerful enough to haunt her for the next several weeks, maybe even months. Violet retreating into her shell once again, closing herself off from the world so thoroughly that no one can even hope to penetrate the wall she's built around her. Dash, angry and confused, lashing out and refusing to acknowledge the source of his fury because the reality of it is too frightening of a concept to face. Jack-Jack – her precious little Jack-Jack – growing up in a home where his mother is merely a loose collection of anecdotes, her existence barely a wisp of a memory tucked away in the furthest corner of his mind. And _Bob_ , alone, consumed with guilt and grief, burdened with the prospect of a future without her and a life darkened by the gaping hole left by her absence that no one, not even his own children, will ever be able to fill.

She thought she was going to _die_. Without ever having the chance to say goodbye.

The tears press against her eyelids, threatening to spill over and release a torrent of her pent-up anguish. She can't go to sleep like this. The physical pain is one thing, but the emotional torture of lying in this bed all alone with the memories of her near-death experience plaguing her thoughts is an entirely different beast altogether, and it's not one she has the strength to conquer on her own. At least not right now. If she was home she would immediately bury herself in Bob's arms, letting him hold her as tightly as humanly possible until she's emptied herself of every last ounce of emotion screaming to break free of her body and escape into the open air. But she's _not_ home and Bob _isn't_ here, and the only thing she can think of that could possibly bring her some small sliver of solace is to hear the sound of his voice filling her ears.

She dials the number before she has a chance to rethink her decision.

Time seems to slow almost to a halt as the endless ringing echoes into Helen's ear. _Please pick up_ , she begs silently, nervously clutching the receiver with both hands. It's a selfish wish, she knows – especially if Bob is already asleep, which he most likely is – but she's too tired and too desperate to pay heed to the tiny voice of her conscience admonishing her from the recesses of her mind. She needs to hear him speak, even if it's only for a few minutes; otherwise, she'll stay up tossing and turning all night, a prisoner held captive by her own chaotic thoughts.

 _Bob, come_ on—

"Hello?"

Helen nearly bursts into tears as the familiar deep rumble crackles through the phone static. The tendrils of fear coiled around her chest loosen their grip, and she heaves a small sigh, allowing a welcome deluge of relief to rush through her veins.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

"Bob," she croaks, speaking more to herself than to him. He's there. He's really there.

"H-Helen? Oh my god, Helen! Are you okay?! I-I tried calling the hotel a couple times and they connected me but no one answered and I figured you got tied up with a mission but I wasn't sure—"

"It's okay. Work…ran late. I'm sorry I didn't call."

He pauses to draw in a small breath before answering. Despite the somewhat fuzzy connection, she can hear the slight tremble in his voice. "So…you're all right?"

Helen freezes, carefully considering her next words. She is most certainly _not_ all right. For a fleeting moment she thinks maybe she _should_ tell Bob the truth about what happened that night – after all, they've agreed to no more secrets between them, and he deserves to know. But then the image of his face flashes into her mind's eye once again. That kind, handsome face now contorted in worry – brow knit in concern, tender blue eyes wide in anxious anticipation. Her heart constricts in her chest and a few tears tumble over the edge of her eyelids and trickle down her cheeks. She can't tell him. Not now. No matter how much she wants – _needs_ – to spill the whole story for her own peace of mind. He'll worry himself to death and that's the last thing he needs right now, especially when he's alone with the kids.

"Yeah," she breathes finally, hating herself for lying even though she knows it's in his best interests. "I'm fine."

Her husband emits a relieved sigh of his own. "I'm glad," he replies in a soft whisper. "I was worried."

The gentleness in Bob's voice nearly shatters Helen's resolve, and she has to choke back the flood of sobs threatening to escape and ruin her charade. "I'm sorry," she rasps quietly as more silent tears roll down her cheeks, leaving hot trails in their wake. "I was just so tired I almost forgot—"

"I know."

"Did you see the news?"

"No, didn't get a chance. The kids, you know. What's up?"

"I, uh, I caught the Screenslaver."

She can almost see his eyes – those beautiful baby blue eyes that still manage to steal her breath away – lighting up in excitement and glowing with pride. "You did?! Oh, honey, that's great!"

Without warning, the cattle prod suddenly blazes into view on the periphery of her consciousness, and her entire body seizes up in panic. She feels her mind beginning to detach again, drifting away into a muted nothingness where the memory can't touch her and the pain is merely a horrible dream. In a desperate attempt to remain grounded in reality, she latches onto the sound of Bob's steady breathing on the other end of the line, forcing her mind to hold on for dear life and just focus on that sound, on _him_. As long as he's there, she's safe. She's alive. They're together.

Except that they're not.

Her heart contracts again as she remembers the distance between them, remembers that only his voice is here with her and not the rest of him. The ache in her chest swells – it's so palpable that it feels almost as excruciating as the red-hot burns scarring her body. She curls in on herself as if somehow the action will assuage the harsh sting, even more tears now blanketing her face in a steady stream of salty liquid.

"Helen?"

She blinks and slowly emerges from her reverie, Bob's voice drawing her back to the present moment.

"Y-yes?"

"You went quiet." The edge in his tone has returned, his alarm clearly evident even through the phone line.

"I'm sorry. Just…tired. It's been a long day."

"Yeah, I bet. I should probably go and let you get some rest."

"NO!" The word comes flying out of her mouth before she can restrain it. She swallows fretfully and quickly tries to mask her sudden outburst. "No, I mean…I'm fine. Talking to you for a bit, I mean. I…I—"

"It's okay, I get it," Bob interrupts softly, his voice tinged with a hint of sadness. "I miss you too."

Helen has to bite her lip to keep from wailing into the phone. She's yearning for nothing more in this moment than to leap into Bob's embrace and sob into his chest, to feel his sturdy body wrapped around hers, his strong arms encircling her waist and squeezing her tightly, his steady heartbeat thrumming against her bones, his warm breath tickling the edge of her ear, his fingers threading gently through her hair.

She wants to go home. To go home, to bury herself in him and forget that any of this has happened.

"I miss you _so_ much." _More than you know._

"Well…at least this means you'll be home soon, right?"

She nearly chuckles through her tears at the fact that he's virtually read her mind. " _God_ , I hope so."

They fall silent for a moment, listening to the sound of each other's breaths.

"Hey, Helen?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm really proud of you, you know."

The air catches in her throat and her heart seizes violently, a fresh surge of tears suddenly swelling in her eyes. She squeezes them shut, barely containing the sob straining furiously at the inside of her throat, screaming to break free. She shudders with the effort as she sucks in a quivering breath in an attempt to steady herself before speaking.

"T-thank you, sweetie," she manages to choke out. "That really means a lot to me."

"I know."

"I should…I should let you get back to sleep. I'm sorry I called so late."

"No, no, it's okay," he murmurs. "I can stay on a little longer if you want."

She grips the phone receiver so tightly in her hands that her knuckles turn white. She wants so _desperately_ to say yes, to take him up on his offer, if only to have his breathing on the other end lull her to sleep. But she knows she can't. He'll have his hands full with the kids in the morning, and he needs all the rest he can get. She got what she wanted – to briefly hear his voice – and it would be asking too much of him to stay up any later into the night. He's already sacrificing enough letting her do this job in the first place.

"No," she forces herself to reply, the word pushing reluctantly past the lump in her throat. "I'm okay. Like you said, I need rest too."

"Okay. If you're sure."

She pauses, almost ready to retract her decision. But she stands her ground, shakes her head, and presses on. "I'm sure."

Helen hears him take a deep breath before answering. "Okay," he says quietly. "I'll…let you go then. Talk to you tomorrow?"

"Yes. Of course."

She can practically _feel_ him smiling through the phone, and the mere idea of it makes her heart ache even more profoundly. "I love you."

Helen swallows thickly before responding. "I love you too."

"Goodnight, babe."

"Goodnight."

 _Click._

And just like that, he's gone.

She doesn't bother to place the phone back in the cradle before unleashing the monstrous sob from inside her, allowing it to burst free from its restraints and roar into the suffocating stillness surrounding her. Clutching one of the pillows in her fists, she buries her face into the fabric and lets loose an anguished wail, the pain and terror and longing all converging into a guttural cry far too wild to be contained within a single emotion.

She screams until her throat is raw and the tears no longer come, and when the dark shadow of sleep finally falls upon her, Helen welcomes it with open arms.

* * *

 **A/N:** _I promise I will TRY to write some fluff next time as a reprieve from this overflow of angst that's taken over my writing! After three angsty oneshots in a row, you guys definitely deserve a fluff intervention xD_


	5. Hanging By A Moment

_Dear Readers,_

 _Hello, it is I, back from the dead with a new oneshot. To those of you who are still interested in reading this, thank you for your continued support! I've had a_ ton _of ideas floating around in my head for the past several months, but this is a relatively newer one that I ultimately chose to write since it fit the parameters for the "My Heart is a Jungle" fanfic contest on Wattpad. This one is a pre-relationship fic, taking place in the Glory Days as one of the hundreds of possible scenarios of how Bob and Helen ended up falling love. Unfortunately I have to admit this story is a bit rushed for two reasons: a) I procrastinated until the very last minute to finish this before the contest deadline (I literally submitted it five minutes before the cutoff lmao), and b) I was unable to fit what I originally intended into the required word limit, so I had to tweak the ending last-minute. As such, if you've bothered to read this note up until this point, you will be screaming at me for ending it the way that that I have, and I apologize in advance. However, despite this story's shortcomings, I hope that you will still enjoy, and as always, please don't hesitate to leave a review! Thanks!_

 _Best Regards,  
Pooka_

* * *

 **Soundtrack:** "Hanging By A Moment" by Lifehouse

* * *

 **Hanging By A Moment**

* * *

 _"I'm desperate for changing_ _  
_ _Starving for truth_ _  
_ _I'm closer to where I started_ _  
_ _Chasing after you_

 _I'm falling even more in love with you_ _  
_ _Letting go of all I've held onto_ _  
_ _I'm standing here until you make me move_ _  
_ _I'm hanging by a moment here with you…"_

* * *

"So. You worried?"

Helen Truax - or, rather, Elastigirl - turns around to meet the gaze of her inquiring companion, the edges of her lips twitching upward into a tiny smirk as she rolls her eyes in response to the question.

"You asked me that five minutes ago."

He pouts, and the stark contrast between his towering stature and the juvenile look on his face almost makes Helen burst into laughter.

"I did _not_."

She rolls her eyes yet again before returning her attention to the blinding white expanse of clouds rapidly spilling out before them. "You did. And you asked five minutes before that. Look, I'm not worried, and _no_ , my answer hasn't changed in the last ten minutes. So you don't have to keep asking."

She hears him shift his weight in the cabin behind her, and the telltale _thump-thump_ of his footsteps against the floor draws closer. "Then why did you go back to the cockpit? I thought we were on autopilot."

Helen lets out a deep sigh and pushes herself up from the pilot's seat, twisting her body to face the man hovering just a few paces behind her. "I _told_ you. I just need to check if everything's all right every now and then until it's time to land at the base. There's nothing to worry about."

"Heh, I'll believe that when we _actually land,_ thank you very much _._ "

He folds his arms across his broad chest, and his brow furrows in a way that makes something stir in her gut - that's been happening a _lot_ lately, and far more often than she cares to admit. But she chooses to ignore the sensation before the thoughts buried deep in the furthest corners of her mind seize their chance to overwhelm her. She's on a mission, after all. No use in letting herself get distracted, even if there's no present danger.

"You know, for someone who calls himself _'Mr. Incredible'_ , you sure are one hell of a wimp."

His jaw drops open in outrage. "I am _not_ a wimp!"

Helen snorts, brushing past the man in question, once again ignoring the annoying _feelings_ swirling in her lower abdomen at the brief second of contact. "I dunno. You sure sound like one."

"I have legitimate concerns!"

"Mysteriously disappearing somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle is not a 'legitimate concern', Bob."

"Yes, it is!" Mr. Incredible - Bob - cries, trailing after Helen as she stretches to open an overhead compartment and grab a cooler of food. "Just because _you_ think the stories are ridiculous doesn't mean they aren't true!"

"There's been no evidence to corroborate any of it."

" _No evidence_?! How do you explain the missing boats we're supposed to be investigating?"

Helen groans, pausing to plant her hands on her hips in frustration. "I _mean_ , no evidence of some paranormal…voodoo or whatever these conspiracy nuts think it is. We're investigating possible criminal activity, _not_ UFO's or sea monsters. Do you _really_ think the NSA would have sent us out here if they thought there was any possibility of us just disappearing without a trace?"

Bob grimaces. "There's a lot of things the NSA likes to keep secret. Even from us. Remember how hush-hush they were about the Philadelphia Experiment - "

"Oh, for _Pete's_ _sake_ , Bob, not that nonsense again!"

"It's not nonsense! There was some _very_ convincing information that was leaked before the government put a cap on the whole issue!"

Helen heaves another sigh as she cracks open the cooler and retrieves a foil-wrapped sandwich, tossing the item at Bob before flopping down onto one of the passenger seats. "Look, you believe what you want to believe, and I'll stick to my facts, okay? Bottom line is, as long as I'm flying this mission, we'll be fine. You trust me, don't you?"

Bob fixes her with a unnervingly fierce stare, one that cuts right through her, and a cold shiver prickles up the length of her spine. He sometimes has a habit of doing this, staring straight into her like he can somehow peer past the defenses she's spent so many years carefully constructing around herself. As much as she hates to admit it, she's grown accustomed to her little inner fortress. It may keep her somewhat isolated, but it's _safe,_ and given her past relationship experiences, she relishes the security of knowing that there is just enough of a barrier between her and everyone else that no one can touch her even if they tried. But for reasons unknown to her, Bob is _different._ To him, it's as if the walls she's built to protect herself don't even exist. With Bob, she's an open book - vulnerable, exposed, and utterly defenseless. Despite his sometimes infuriating tendency to be a bit thick-headed, he's the only person she thinks can really, truly see _her_ underneath the image she projects to the rest of the world, and that notion both thrills and terrifies her more than she can ever hope to comprehend.

Helen's breath catches in her throat, but she is unable to tear her gaze away. Bob always has that effect on people - the ability to draw them in with little to no effort simply by virtue of being, well, _himself_. For all her super abilities, not even the invincible Elastigirl is immune to his magnetic pull. It's a force that is constantly tugging at her even when he's not around, and when he is, resisting it is about as useless as swimming against a rip current at high tide.

"Well?" Helen manages to croak when the tense silence between them becomes too much for her bear.

"Of course I trust you," Bob finally replies, his voice a quiet rumble, his blue eyes still boring into hers. "I trust you more than I trust anyone."

Her heart clenches in her chest at the admission, but she quickly dismisses it, and answers him before the warm flush creeping up her neck has a chance to betray her emotion.

"Then you've got nothing to worry about."

Bob regards her thoughtfully for a few seconds before at last breaking eye contact, much to Helen's relief. Seemingly placated for the moment, he lowers his hulking body onto the seat opposite Helen's and unwraps his sandwich. His stomach growls in anticipation and approval when the foil reveals a hefty double-decker roast beef club - his favorite, and slathered with a generous amount of mayonnaise no less. If he's going to vanish into thin air due to some supernatural anomaly, at the very least his last meal will have been a good one. Thank _God_ for Honey and her impeccable cooking skills. If anyone deserves to open their own restaurant, it's most undoubtedly her, and Bob makes a mental note to be first in line on opening day out of sheer gratitude at having been spared time and time again on away missions from the horrors of pre-packaged NSA slop.

The pair eat in silence for several minutes, the need for rest and nourishment overtaking the need for conversation. Bob leans back against the headrest for a moment, deciding to savor the glorious taste of Honey's home-cooked roast beef instead of wolfing it down in one sitting as he usually would. He glances across at Helen, whose head is turned towards the window, the uneaten half of her sandwich balanced neatly on her lap. The sun streams through the glass, bathing her face in a luminous golden glow. The light catches on her long auburn hair, illuminating it such a way that it almost appears as if she's surrounded by a shimmering, fiery halo. For a woman with a personality as vibrant and as headstrong as Helen's, the image is more than appropriate, and Bob can't help the small smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. She's an angel in the flesh, a Valkyrie without wings - equal parts serene beauty and indomitable warrior. She is without a doubt the most stunning thing he has ever seen, and it takes his breath away.

Not that he would ever say anything of the sort out loud. Bob is keenly aware of the fact that Helen will only ever see him as nothing more than a friend, and as much as it pains him to keep his distance, she means _far_ too much to him for him to even consider crossing that boundary. There are things from her past - some things she's disclosed and others he's managed to infer for himself - that keep her cocooned in a bubble of self-sufficiency. Although her inclination towards isolating herself sometimes concerns him, he's not willing to burst that bubble and betray her trust. What began as a tense working relationship built on snide comments and ruthless competition has over time evolved into nothing short of an inseparable bond forged from mutual respect and admiration. Aside from Lucius, Helen is the best friend he's ever had,and no matter what he may feel, Bob will never do anything to jeopardize that.

That doesn't mean he won't often find himself wishing that the space between them was just a little less, or that her warm amber gaze would linger on his a tiny bit longer, or that the gentle touch of her hand would find its way to somewhere other than just his arm or his shoulder, or that her lips would do more than simply speak his name. However, he knows all too well that none of that is meant to be. He can't deny the hollow ache in his chest and the desperate longing gnawing at his insides whenever they're together. But Bob would rather live a life with Helen as his friend than live a life without her at all, and the knowledge that she'll always be there makes even the most trying times worth it.

All of a sudden, a loud beeping noise startles him out of his reverie. Before he can even blink, Helen bolts to her feet, abandoning her sandwich on the seat behind her and striding towards the cockpit. A surge of anxiety floods through his veins, and he snaps his head around to watch her slip back into the pilot's seat.

"Helen?" he squeaks, his voice several pitches higher than normal. "What's wrong?"

"Don't worry, it's probably nothing. Lemme just check - "

 ** _BOOM!_**

 _"Helen?!"_ _  
_ _  
_And then several things happen at once.

The cabin begins shuddering violently. Before Bob has a chance to even comprehend what's happening, the world is suddenly tilting on its axis, and he tumbles out of his seat onto floor. He scrambles to grab a hold of something but the floor continues tilting away from him, slipping farther and farther under him until the whole world is _spinning,_ everything morphing into a dizzying blur of color and light. The movement tosses his body around with reckless abandon, hurling it across to one end of the cabin and back again, bouncing him about like a human pinball. He can hear Helen screaming into the radio over a cacophony of blaring sirens, and maybe he hears her screaming his name too - in between slamming into the seats and smacking against the ceiling, he can't make heads or tails of where he is or what's going on. His stomach lurches, and then something is wrapping around him or clutching his shoulder and screaming, _screaming, SCREAMING - god_ , it's so _loud_ and his head is pounding and maybe he's dying or going deaf or simply needs to wretch Honey's roast beef all over the walls and take a good long nap -

 _"BOB!"_

He blinks, coming to, and realizes that it's _Helen_ who's clutching him and doing all the screaming. One of her arms is wound so tightly around his that his has gone completely numb, while the other is wrapped securely around one of seats to steady them against the convulsions wracking the cabin.

" _Helen?!_ What - "

"None of the controls are responding! I tried everything, I think there was some kind of explosion or something hit us - _I don't know -_ but we've lost engines and we're losing altitude and we have to bail! _NOW_!"

" _What?!_ But how - "

"There's no time!" Helen shrieks. "You have to open the emergency hatch! I'm not strong enough!"

Bob struggles to make sense of Helen's words amidst the chaos. "Emergency…what…what about parachutes?!"

" _I'll_ be your parachute! GO! _NOW_!"

" _WHAT?!_ "

" _TRUST ME_!"

Then it all clicks.

Oh god.

They're going to _crash_.

His gaze locks with Helen's as the realization of their horrifying reality finally hits him in full force. Her amber eyes are wide with terror, and it suddenly dawns on him that if they don't both make it out of this, this is the last time he'll ever see those eyes. The last time he'll ever see _her._ Just moments ago he was looking at her in awe and wonder, and now he's facing the possibility that this may be his last chance to look at her at all. His last chance to even _be_ with her. His last chance to tell her how beautiful and amazing he thinks she is, his last chance to spill the three precious words he's kept buried deep inside his heart for so long. His last chance for… _everything_.

And maybe it's that overpowering fear, or the rush of adrenaline coursing through his body - or perhaps he's just delirious - but in the split second it takes for Bob to understand the gravity of the situation, he does the one thing, the _only_ thing that makes sense to him.

He kisses her.

He grabs the sides of Helen's face, yanking her towards him - roughly, recklessly - and crashes his lips to hers. Time seems to slow, and in that instant he can feel her pushing violently against him, _responding_. Whether it's out of true reciprocation or terrified desperation, he has no clue, but if this is truly the end, then the details don't matter. All that matters is her body pressing into him, her fingers stretching and shoving into his hair, her mouth gasping and opening beneath his, her heartbeat hammering into his bones - the feeling of _all_ of her enveloping him and consuming him in this one final, heated moment is all he needs - more than his own life, more than guarantee of his own survival.

And then, as quickly as it happens, it's over, and he pulls away, gulping in air as his gaze meets hers again. One last wordless message passes between them as they look into each other's eyes, before Bob launches himself at the emergency hatch and wrenches the door open.

* * *

 **A/N:** _Thanks again for reading! As you can see, I basically ended this on a massive cliffhanger (darn contest word limit), and again, I apologize profusely for any distress this has caused. This idea has somewhat blossomed into a concept for a potential chapter fic, so if I can maintain the motivation, I may attempt to work at that in the near? future (don't quote me on that, though xD). Consider this a VERY tentative rough draft for a possible? first chapter. As always, special thanks to **SapereAude03** and **Ilovetowrite75** for helping me brainstorm ideas! These stories wouldn't exist without you!_


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